What Began in Folly
by L. Carlyle
Summary: It's been a long week, and Lockwood and Co. are investigating their last case before the weekend. However, sleep-deprivation and slight crankiness is not an especially great combination-not, at least, when facing dangerous Type Two ghosts-and what begins as just another dreary Friday afternoon case quickly reveals itself to be much, much more.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Lockwood and Co. Jonathan Stroud does.**

 ** **A/N: This isn't much in terms of action, I know. But t** **his is my first fanfic, so I want to go slowly. And I apologize if some of the characters seem OOC or if the writing's not up to par. Constructive criticism would be really appreciated. Oh, and I'm not British, I'm American. I'll try to keep obvious Americanisms out of my writing (ex: _biscuits_ not _cookies_ ), but I'll probably mess up. A lot. So if you notice a term or something that you think I should change, please let me know. I'd be really grateful.**  
**

Prologue

A haunted house is never a good place to pick a fight. Any agent worth her iron knows that. Visitors feed off of negative energy. They love anger especially; it's such a powerful emotion. You could sit there in the dark and yell yourself hoarse and never notice that something _else_ is softly, stealthily growing, that something _else_ is gathering force and rising—not, at least, until it comes crashing down upon your head. Lose control on a case at the Fittes or Rotwell agencies and you'd find yourself out on the streets and out of a job quicker than you could draw your rapier. It's a rule no agent ever breaks. It's just as vital to our well being as the cookie rule

And yet we at Lockwood and Co. managed to do just that. Break it, I mean.

Mind you, it wasn't quite as bad as the time Lockwood forgot the iron chains, or that time George made our tea with the kettle that was the Source.

No, it was almost certainly worse.

Although, we _did_ come out of it alive. And it _does_ make for a spectacular story.

Would you like to hear it?

Chapter 1

The house was small, smaller than its neighbors, and dwarfed by the great hills that rose up behind it. The walls were painted white and the shutters pink, and, if I squinted, I could just see lacy curtains hanging in the upstairs windows, shrouding the insides from view. Exuding an aura of prim and feminine propriety, it was the sort of house where one might expect to find either a young woman or little old spinster resident.

It was not the sort of house that one would expect to hold a Visitor.

But in my months at Lockwood and Co., I'd learned to expect the unexpected. Take George, for example. On any given afternoon, he'd be slouched neck deep in the plushest sofa, face squashed in another one of his comics, unmoving as a corpse in rigor mortis. Threats of eating the last biscuit only elicit the smallest of grunts. You'd be justified in mistaking him for a sloth, or in thinking he was only capable of movement about once every century. But bring a jelly donut within a mile radius of him, and he'd move faster than the most vengeful Type Two.

So it was not without some trepidation that I regarded the house. Our client had left for a motel a week ago, claiming it impossible to stay another night there. And, according to George's research, the place was not quite so innocent as its appearance would have us believe.

"Alright," Lockwood said, pushing open the gate, "Are you two good to go? Got everything?"

"Everything except a bit of decent sleep," George muttered. This was true. We'd barely slept the past week on account of all the cases coming in, and exhaustion was beginning to take its toll.

Lockwood pretended not to hear. "Excellent." We had reached the porch. He extracted a key from one of his jacket pockets and held it out to me. "Luce, care to do the honors?"

It _was_ my turn, so I took it, shouldered my duffel bag, and turned it in the lock. The door opened with a soft click; we filed inside. I set my duffel bag on the floor, shut the door behind me, and looked around.

The soft gray light of the fast fading afternoon illuminated the front hall. A bare coatrack bade us welcome from one corner; quaint landscapes winked from the walls. There was a little round table in front of the short stretch of wall directly across from us, where the hallway split into two smaller corridors. A vase sat upon the table, resplendent with a bunch of wilting yellow flowers. Small knickknacks surrounded it. A thin coating of dust overlay everything. The air was musty and warm and very still. It all _looked_ very ordinary, but I thought I could detect a faint…something—an out-of-place emotion…anger? Sadness? I couldn't identify it, but it made me edgy.

That would only get stronger once night fell, I was sure.

George was already moving in search of the kitchen, opening doors down one of the two corridors. Lockwood stood next to me. He, too, was looking around—but for an entirely different reason.

"See anything?" I said.

He shrugged. "No. But I'm hardly likely to here, am I? Our client said she saw it in the basement."

"Mm." I was straining to listen, but the distant din coming from George's direction was slightly distracting. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried my best to block it all out—block out the sounds of George cursing and knocking things about in the next room, block out the sound of Lockwood breathing softly next to me—and _listen_ …

Nothing. Only silence, deep as a well and oppressively opaque. And that _feeling_ , picking away at my senses.

I opened my eyes.

Lockwood was looking at me. "Hear anything?"

I shook my head. "It's all quiet for now, but that'll change soon. But listen, Lockwood, did you feel—"

"Lockwood! Lucy!" George called, "I've found the kitchen!"

Lockwood smiled at me. "C'mon. Let's go help George."

I nodded, feeling foolish. The faint emotion had faded. I must've imagined it. I _had_ been up late last night.

Tea would make me feel better, I decided. Absolutely.

So, keeping silent, I hefted my bag and followed Lockwood into the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

George had already settled himself at our client's dainty, pink breakfast table. The chair he was sitting upon looked like it might break at any moment under the strain.

With any luck, that would be the only thing broken in the course of the night.

The kettle had been set to boil. Lockwood was setting his duffel down on the breakfast table; I settled into the seat next to him. As was our routine, we began sorting through our supplies while George gathered his papers.

Silence hung heavily over us as we worked. We were much too tired to attempt any sort of conversation. Outside, the sun had already begun its steady descent. Pale light filtered feebly through the lacy curtains. The day was in its dying throes, and everyone knew it; I could see, through the narrow view offered by the window, people scurrying down the sidewalk across the street—adults, hurrying home from work. Soon, the streets would be empty. At least, empty of the living.

It hadn't always been this way, I knew. I pushed aside a coil of iron chain, dug deeper into my duffel for an iron canister. What _had_ it been like, I wondered idly, before the Problem? Dull, Lockwood would say. George would say it had been safe. I was inclined to agree. But Lockwood _did_ have a point…without the Problem, there would be no agencies, and no agents. No Lockwood and Co.

What would I have done instead?

I set down the iron canister I had been weighing, picked up a bag of salt. School perhaps? Yes, it _would_ have been dull…George might disagree, school would possibly suit him, but that was George, and to anyone else it would be dreadfully dull…

And Lockwood? I shifted the salt bag from hand to hand, pondering. What _would_ Lockwood do, without the Problem? It was hard to imagine. Lockwood practically _breathed_ the Problem…distant and secretive as he sometimes was, that much was obvious. The way his eyes sparked at each new case, how he refused to turn down any job (a driving factor behind our current exhaustion), the energy he brought with him to every job, and which overflowed at every success…He was _driven_ by the Problem. It was precisely what made him such a good leader.

But without it, would that energy be, perhaps, turned to something else?

To what?

I had no answer. I felt vaguely frustrated. I was no closer to knowing Lockwood than I had been the day I'd joined the company. Our leader's careful distance was a subtle thing, but it seemed to persistently poke and prod, gleefully snatching the limelight at the most unexpected of moments.

The high piping of the kettle broke me from my contemplations. George sprang up to snatch the kettle from the stove. I swung the duffels to the floor to make room for the biscuits. Tea, hot and strong, was poured out; I sipped at it gratefully. The steaming heat, searing against my tongue, was a welcome distraction. My ponderings had left me strangely unsettled…or was that simply the atmosphere? I took another hasty gulp of tea and focused on George, who was preparing to speak.

 **A/N: Sorry, I know I've taken forever to update. I had grand plans of updating every two weeks or so, but they've been sadly thwarted. I've been _really_ busy with school. I know this chapter is mainly focused on Lucy's perception of Lockwood's distance...I figured I should include some of that since it seems to be sort of an important theme in the book. Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think.  
**


	3. Chapter 3

"Right," George said, crunching a biscuit, "The good news is that there's no evidence that any bloody murder has occurred in this house, or really anything like it. In fact, it was pretty difficult to dig up _anything_ on this place." He stopped crunching, took a slow gulp of tea.

"And the bad news?" I asked, a tad impatiently.

"Ah…well, that _was_ the bad news. Sort of."

"What?"

He set the teacup down, made some small adjustment to his spectacles. "As I said, it was really hard to find anything on this house—"

An awful thought occurred to me. "Don't tell me you haven't found anything!"  
"No!" He scowled at me. "Let me finish."

I sat back. "OK. Sorry. Jumpy, you know. Must be the lack of sleep."

George snorted. " _I've_ had even less sleep than _you_! Anyway," he added hastily, "I didn't find any evidence of suspicious deaths that might have occurred on the property, so I changed my approach. And I found something _very_ interesting."

From my right, Lockwood gave a muffled groan. "Don't tell me. We're not going to like this, are we?"

George didn't answer. He was busy rifling through his stack of papers. "OK," he said, pushing his glasses up, "First thing I found: about fifty years ago, the owner was a civil servant who was accused of leaking delicate information to the press. He was sentenced to house arrest for twenty years. He died within the first ten years of his sentence. Cardiac arrest was the official report. But see, about three years later, the _Times_ published a story that the man was wrongly accused! He was innocent, there was a great big scandal—some bigwig who testified against him was the one actually responsible."

"Nothing very interesting about that, George," Lockwood said. "Rather common, actually. So, this government official is our Visitor."

"That's what I thought," George said, "but I decided to dig a bit deeper, and I'm glad I did. Here, look." He shook some papers from his stack and tossed them at us.

I peered at the papers closest to me, and realized they were copies of old obituaries: _Mrs Eliza Dobbs, 41, died in her Mayfair home on Tuesday of a cardiac arrest. She was not previously known to suffer from a heart condition…Mr John Taylor, 32, died in his Mayfair home last Sunday of a cardiac arrest…physician shocked…no prior evidence of heart problems…Ms Rose Whiting, 57, of Mayfair, died Saturday of a cardiac arrest…_ These were all relatively recent; they were reported in newspapers published within the last seventy years. There was more, from the 1800s, even a few from the 1700s: _Mr Trevor Travis died of an apparent ailment of the heart…Mrs John Smith…died Sunday…at her husband's home in Mayfair…Mr Edgar Cross of Mayfair…_ My head spun with names and dates.

I looked at George. "All of them? They all died of heart attacks?"

George shook a crumb-dusted finger. " _Not_ heart attacks, but cardiac arrests. And no, not all the owners died of cardiac arrests. Some of them died of old age and other things, of course. But a _lot_ of them _have_ died of cardiac arrests. An oddly significant number of them, I'd say." He sat back, biscuit in hand, crunching smugly.

I looked down at the papers, and then across at Lockwood. He looked at me. I knew we were thinking the same thing. The familiar fire in his eyes, which had before been dimmed by exhaustion, was back and brightly burning.

"In the old days," he said slowly, "before the Problem, they didn't know about ghost-touch…it wasn't a condition. So they mistook it for something else…frostbite, maybe, or-or—"

"An _ailment of the heart_ ," I finished.

"Exactly," said George. He leaned forward, glasses glinting in the dim, dying sunlight. "You know what this means, don't you? This house has been haunted since _before_ the Problem."

Lockwood was grinning. "This is excellent! If the Visitor's been active this long, it must be really strong." He practically glowed with excitement as he looked around at us. "This is our chance, you two. This could be big."

"Wait, hold on," I said. "One question: if people have been dying of ghost-touch here all along, why hasn't anyone reported anything recently?" I waved the stack of papers. "These people didn't know of the Problem, but surely there have been more recent incidents? The last death was," I glanced through the stack, "A Mrs Dobbs in 1952. That was ages ago. There _has_ to have been something more recent."

George nodded. "I thought of that, too. And you're right, Lucy, there _was_ something. It was quite a while ago, when it was still pretty early on in the Problem, so it might have been overlooked— misclassified as something more natural, you know—except it was a young couple. Two people! Much more suspicious." He paused, slurped some tea. "So they had Fittes agents go in—this was back when Fittes was still a fledgling agency. They did the whole bit: salted the grounds, laced the bricks with iron, carted away some questionable items, had DEPRAC put the house on their monitoring list."

"Then what?" Lockwood prodded.

George shrugged. "You'd think it would've solved the problem, wouldn't you? And yet here we are. The house was empty for a while after the Fittes investigation. The rest is as our client told us: about twenty years into the Problem, her client's father purchased it, fixed it up. But they didn't live here, they lived down in Pimlico. Then our client got the house when her father died. That was about two years ago."

"So…"

"So either Fittes messed up, DEPRAC's been lax on its monitoring, a combination of the two—which is always possible—or…something else." A sudden seriousness settled over his expression. "And that's the bad news. I've really no idea why this place is still haunted, or even why it was haunted in the first place. I couldn't find anything earlier than the 1800s about this house. So, no idea what we'll be up against tonight."

I shook my head. "Brilliant." I took a hearty bite of my biscuit and crunched. Sugar was fortifying.

Lockwood was more optimistic, possibly because he was still excited by the uniqueness of the case. "Oh, cheer up, Luce. It'll be just like old times."

I swallowed my biscuit, glanced across at him. "Old times? Like Annie Ward, you mean? Explain how that's supposed to cheer me up."

"Well, it was certainly…exciting."

I scoffed. "Nearly dying? Getting sued for property damage? _Exciting_? Personally, I'd classify it as something one hopes is once-in-a-lifetime. Plus, we were _still_ more prepared for Annie Ward. If I recall, we were already sort of betting on a Type Two and, more importantly, we were wide awake."

"Oh, come off it, Luce. We've got all our supplies this time. It'll be _fine_. Right, George?"

 **A/N: Now things are getting sort of interesting. More action in the next chapter. Thanks for reading. Please let me know what you think!  
**


	4. Chapter 4

The luminous dial of my watch showed six-fifty-four. We'd finished with our customary sweep. The kitchen, as it turned out, was the warmest room in the house; all the other rooms were down by a couple of degrees. Whether that was at all significant, none of us were quite sure. But we _were_ sure of the significance of a little room in the basement, in which I could see my breath plume; and that of the ground floor parlor directly above that room, in which we'd found a cold spot.

Lockwood, of course, had called dibs on the corner room. I'd snagged the parlor. That left George to watch the stairs. He hadn't been too bothered about that, by the look of him.

Through the parlor window, the sun could barely be seen over the horizon; only the last vestiges of day still clung stubbornly to life. I was ready, sitting in the center of the double circle of iron chains that I'd rigged up in the corridor just outside the parlor. I'd sprinkled salt and sprigs of lavender within the boundary of the chains for extra protection. I wasn't taking any chances tonight; none of us would be. It had taken some convincing, but Lockwood had agreed: tonight would be strictly for observation. Once we'd judged the danger, we'd come back the next night to finish the case.

At least, that was the plan.

I waited. Night was falling fast. Darkness seeped slowly in from the thick blue-blackness of the night outside, pooling in the corners and choking the hard lines of the walls in its murky ambiguity. I pulled the ghost jar from my backpack, set it carefully by the edge of the chains. The green glow of the spirit within cast a pale, watery light over my surroundings. The skull was still and silent, but the light meant that it was present and watchful. That was fine by me. I wasn't much in the mood for its vile talk.

My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten breakfast or lunch; I'd gone to the stores first thing in the morning to restock on supplies. All these cases were good for money and publicity, but they were fast depleting our energy along with our stores of salt and magnesium.

Where _was_ it? I could've sworn I'd shoved a packet of crisps into my backpack. Ah, there it was. I tore it open and began to crunch.

Was it just me, or were my movements unnecessarily loud?

Seven-fifteen glowed on my watch dial. Not much time had passed. Still…I paused in my crunching, scanned the darkness. All was still. All was silent.

Even so, my skin prickled.

I opened my eyes wide.

Nothing.

I stopped crunching and listened…

And immediately shot to my feet, breathing hard.

A maddened cackle resounded repeatedly in my ear—so close it seemed that someone stood right next to me, within the double loop of iron…

I spun within the coil of the chains, rapier in hand, staring wildly into the dark—

 _Oooohhhh, Lucy, did I startle you? I was simply trying to do an impression of you…though I'm not sure whether I sounded quite mad enough._

I lowered my rapier, exhaled. "You! You _idiot_ , what was that for?"

The face in the jar winked obnoxiously. _Well, someone's got to keep you on your toes. I must say, that was even more pathetic than normal. Are you quite sure you're not a pigeon?_

It spun smugly round and round behind the silver-glass, obviously pleased with its insult. I rolled my eyes.

"If you haven't got anything useful to report, you can just shut up."

 _What do you mean, 'haven't got anything useful'? That was plenty useful! I was pointing out your weakness! It's not anything to be ashamed about, you know. Some people are just more animal than human._

"Oh, shut _up_!"

 _Alright, alright. Goodness, you are touchy._

As most things go with the skull, the best thing to do was to ignore it. I sat back down and did just that. It continued its blabbering for some time before subsiding, resorting to staring out at me from the silver-glass jar and pulling disgusting faces whenever I glanced around at it.

I pulled out my sketchbook and attempted to assume an air of nonchalance. Not easy to do when your nerves are on edge, as mine still were. Whatever I'd sensed earlier—and I had sensed something—had faded back into the shadows, but I wasn't fooled; it would be back. It was simply biding its time.

It was _so_ quiet now. I could hear my watch ticking just as clearly as if I'd held it up to my ear. It was also very dark—the faint light of the ghost-jar just barely provided enough illumination for me to see my sketchbook. I drew my pencil across the page, heard it _scritch-scratch-scritch_ across the smooth, blank paper—

 _Thump...thump…thump...thump…_

I bolted upright. What was _that_?

 _Thump…thump...thump…thump…_

It sounded like—

 _Thump…thump…thump…thump…_

Yes. Footsteps. Headed straight towards me.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I've been meaning to update for a while now, but I never got time. I've been home sick lately, with nothing much to do, so I figured I might as well. Enjoy.**

Slowly, very slowly, I got to my feet. I checked my watch. Seven-thirty. Seven- _thirty_. Hardly anything was powerful at only seven-thirty…Temperature hadn't dropped either—

 _Thump...thump…thump…thump…_

"Skull," I hissed as loudly as I dared, "Skull, what do you sense?"

It didn't reply.

 _Thump…thump…thump…thump…_

Whoever (or whatever) it was, they were coming from the direction of the stairs—

 _Thump…thump…thump…thump…_

 _-_ which meant that George had seen—

 _Thump…thump…thump…_

—had seen…Wait—George! Of course! I nearly laughed in relief. Why hadn't I thought of it before? Of _course_ it was George!

 _Thump…thump…_

The kitchen was right by the parlor. Good old George. He'd probably nipped up to get something to eat. After all, it was only seven-thirty.

 _Thump…thump…thump…thump…_

So why didn't I step out of my chains? Why didn't I call out to him?

 _Thump…thump...thump…thump…_

Green light flared. The skull gave me a cheery grin. _Oh-ho, is someone scared? It's alright, Lucy, it'll be our little secret. No one need ever know that you're just a big fat wuss when it comes down to it._

I glared at it. What was it talking about? _I_ wasn't scared. After all, I'd survived Wythburn Mill and Combe Carey Hall. I wasn't afraid _at all_. It was just George. I stepped forward within the boundary of my chains—

 _Thump…thump...thump…thump…_

"George!" I called. "You know you shouldn't be out of your position. Lockwood would have a fit if he knew."

The footsteps stopped dead.

Silence.

Why was it so dark?

"George?" My voice sounded high and wavering to my own ears. I cleared my throat. "George, it's just me, Lucy."

Still no response. The footsteps resumed, coming up the corridor, closer, closer, _closer_ —

They stopped about a foot away from the chains.

"Lucy?"

George. Suddenly I could breathe again. "Yes. Yes, it's me. What are you doing?"

A snort. "Looking for you, of course."

"For me? What do you mean?"

"Lockwood's been calling you for ages."

Something prickled down my spine. "Lockwood's been calling me? I haven't heard a thing."

"Yes, well… _something's_ at work in this place."

"Yes, that's true, I feel _so_ on edge. You know, for a moment there, I thought _you_ were a Visitor."

"Really?"

"Yes. Well, what's Lockwood want?"

"He thinks he's found something…wants us all to come look. He asked me to come get you. So, c'mon."

"Right. OK."

I scooped up my rapier and the ghost jar and made to step out of the chains.

Except, I didn't.

I hesitated.

George tapped an impatient foot. "Lucy?"

"Sorry, sorry." I took a deep breath. It was only seven-thirty. Nothing was around—at least, not yet. George was right there, waiting for me, probably clutching his extra backpack of supplies.

In short, there was no reason to be scared.

I stepped out of the chains.

Nothing happened.

George clicked his tongue. "What're you standing around for? C'mon!" He set off at a brisk pace, his footsteps echoing all around us in that tiny corridor. I followed much more slowly, rapier out in front, ghost-jar clutched under my arm, pausing every few moments to take stock of my senses.

Down the stairs, into the black chill of the basement. I paused once more when we got to where I thought the middle was. I could still see absolutely nothing. I couldn't _hear_ anything either. But there was a heaviness to the cold air. It pressed, cold and cruel, against my chest.

Malaise. Strong, too. Yes, something was stirring.

Wait, where was George?

He wasn't in front of me anymore…When I'd paused, I hadn't heard anything…not even the sound of his footsteps. And he _had_ been rather loud—

Well, I'd been trailing behind. Perhaps he'd already gone to Lockwood, thinking I was behind him. Perhaps he hadn't noticed me pause…

Yes, that was it. They were both there now, in that little room, waiting for me. They were probably worried. I'd better hurry.

I switched on my torch for a brief second to get my bearings. I _was_ in the center of the basement, just as I'd thought. And the little room was just in front of me. I flicked the flashlight off, took a step forward. I'd just walk in, cool, composed—

Something rustled behind me. Eddies of cold air swirled at my back. My feet reacted before my brain did; I hurtled toward the little room—

"Who's there—Oof!"

" _Ouch_!"

"Lucy?"

"Lockwood?"


End file.
